that of “the most dashing of all the Amazons on the Bois,” to quote
the words of the artist, who was a better painter of portraits than of
animals, but who, in this case, could not separate the rider from her
steed.
Seaman, a Hungarian bay, by Xenophon and Lena Rivers, was drawn in
profile, very erect on his slender, nervous legs. He appeared, on the
side nearest the observer, to be pawing the ground impatiently with his
hoof, a movement which seemed to be facilitated by his rider, who, drawn
in a three-quarters view and extending her hand, allowed the reins to
fall over the shoulders of her pure-blooded mount.
“What do you think of it?” Zibeline inquired of General de Prerolles.
“I think you have the air of the commander of a division of cavalry,
awaiting the moment to sound the charge.”
“I shall guard her well,” said Zibeline, “for she would be sure to be
put to rout by your bayonets.”
“Not by mine!” gallantly exclaimed Lenaieff. “I should immediately lower
my arms before her!”
“You!--perhaps! But between General de Prerolles and myself the
declaration of war is without quarter. Is it not, General?” said
Valentine, laughing.
“It is the only declaration that fate permits me to make to you,
Mademoiselle,” Henri replied, rather dryly, laying emphasis on the
double sense of his words.
This rejoinder, which nothing in the playful attack had justified,
irritated the Duchess, but Valentine appeared to pay no attention to it,
and at ten o’clock, when a gypsy band began to play in the long gallery,
she arose.
“Although we are a very small party,” she said, “would you not like to
indulge in a waltz, Mesdames? The gentlemen can not complain of being
crowded here,” she added, with a smile.
M. de Lisieux and M. de Nointel, as well as Edmond Delorme, hastened to
throw away their cigarettes, and all made their way to the long gallery.
The Baron de Samoreau and the Chevalier de Sainte-Foy remained alone
together.
The Duchess took the occasion to speak quietly to her brother.
“I assure you that you are too hard with her,” she said. “There is
no need to excuse yourself for not marrying. No one dreams of such a
thing--she no more than any one else. But she seems to have a sentiment
of friendship toward you, and I am sure that your harshness wounds her.”
A more experienced woman than Madame de Montgeron, who had known only
a peaceful and legitimate love, would have quickly divined that beneath
her brother’s brusque manner lurked a budding but hopeless passion,
whence sprang his intermittent revolt against the object that had
inspired it.
This revolt was not only against Zibeline’s fortune; it included her
all-pervading charm, which penetrated his soul. He was vexed at his
sister for having brought them together; he was angry with himself
that he had allowed his mind to be turned so quickly from his former
prejudices; and, however indifferent he forced himself to appear, he
was irritated against Lenaieff because of the attentions which that
gentleman showered upon Zibeline, upon whom he revenged himself by
assuming the aggressive attitude for which the Duchess had reproached
him.
In a still worse humor after the sisterly remonstrance to which he had
just been compelled to listen, he seated himself near the entrance of
the gallery, where the gypsy band was playing one of their alluring
waltzes, of a cadence so different from the regular and monotonous
measure of French dance music.
The three couples who were to compose this impromptu ball, yielded
quickly to the spell of this irresistible accompaniment.
“Suppose Monsieur Desvanneaux should hear that we danced on the eve of
Palm Sunday?” laughingly pro-tested Madame de Lisieux.
“He would report it at Rome,” said Madame de Nointel.
And, without further regard to the compromising of their souls, each of
the two young women took for a partner the husband of the other.
Mademoiselle de Vermont had granted the eager request of Lenaieff that
she would waltz with him, an occupation in which the Russian officer
acquitted himself with the same respectful correctness that had formerly
obtained for him the high favor of some grand duchess at the balls in
the palace of Gatchina.
He was older and stouter than his brother-in-arms, Henri de Prerolles,
and a wound he had received at Plevna slightly impeded his movements,
so that he was unable to display the same activity in the dance as the
other waltzers, and contented himself with moving a ‘trois temps’, in an
evolution less in harmony with the brilliancy of the music.
Henri, on the contrary, who had been a familiar friend of the Austrian
ambassador at the time when the Princess de Metternich maintained a sort
of open ballroom for her intimates, had learned, in a good school, all
the boldness and elegance of the Viennese style of dancing.
But he sat immovable, as did also Edmond Delorme, because of the lack of
partners; and, not wishing to take the second place after Lenaieff, his
rival, he would not for the world abandon his role of spectator, unless
some one forced him to it.
“Suppose we have a cotillon figure, in order to change partners?” said
Valentine suddenly, during a pause, after she had thanked her partner.
And, to set the example, she took, from a basket of flowers, a rosebud,
which she offered to Henri.
“Will you take a turn with me?” she said, with the air of the mistress
of the house, who shows equal courtesy to all her guests.
“A deux temps?” he asked, fastening the rosebud in his buttonhole.
“Yes, I prefer that,” she replied.
He passed his arm around her waist, and they swept out upon the polished
floor, he erect and gallant, she light and supple as a gazelle, her
chin almost resting upon her left hand, which lay upon her partner’s
shoulder, her other hand clasped in his.
At times her long train swirled in a misty spiral around her, when they
whirled about in some corner; then it spread out behind her like a great
fan when they swept in a wide curve from one end of the gallery to the
other.
During the feverish flight which drew these two together, their breasts
touched, the bosom of the enchantress leaned against the broad chest
of the vigorous soldier, her soft hair caressed his cheek, he inhaled a
subtle Perfume, and a sudden intoxication overflowed his heart, which he
had tried to make as stern and immobile as his face.
“How well you waltz!” murmured Zibeline, in his ear.
“I am taking my revenge for my defeat on the ice,” he replied, clasping
her a little closer, in order to facilitate their movements.
“The prisoners you take must find it very difficult to escape from your
hands,” she said, with a touch of malice.
“Does that mean that already you wish to reclaim your liberty?”
“Not yet--unless you are fatigued.”
“Fatigued! I should like to go thus to the end of the world!”
“And I, too,” said Zibeline, simply.
By common consent the other waltzers had stopped, as much for the
purpose of observing these two as for giving them more space, while the
wearied musicians scraped away as if it were a contest who should move
the faster, themselves or the audacious couple.
“What a pity!” again said the Duchess to her husband, whose
sole response was a shrug of his shoulders as he glanced at his
brother-in-law.
At the end of his strength, and with a streaming brow, the gypsy leader
lowered his bow, and the music ceased.
Henri de Prerolles, resuming his sang-froid, drew the hand of
Mademoiselle de Vermont through his arm, and escorted her to her place
among the other ladies.
“Bravo, General!” said Madame de Lisieux. “You have won your decoration,
I see,” she added, indicating the rosebud which adorned his buttonhole.
“What shall we call this new order, ladies?” asked Madame de Nointel of
the circle.
“The order of the Zibeline,” Valentine replied, with a frank burst of
laughter.
“What?--do you know--” stammered the author of the nickname, blushing up
to her ears.
“Do not disturb yourself, Madame! The zibeline is a little animal which
is becoming more and more rare. They never have been found at all in my
country, which I regret,” said Mademoiselle de Vermont graciously.
The hour was late, and the Duchess arose to depart. The Chevalier de
Sainte-Foy, exercising his function as a sort of chamberlain, went to
summon the domestics. Meanwhile Valentine spoke confidentially to Henri.
“General,” said she, “I wish to ask a favor of you.”
“I am at your orders, Mademoiselle.”
“I am delighted with the success of this little dinner,” Valentine
continued, “and I wish to give another after Easter. My great desire is
to have Mademoiselle Gontier--with whom I should like to become better
acquainted--recite poetry to us after dinner. Would you have the
kindness to tell her of my desire?”
“I!” exclaimed the General, amazed at such a request.
“Yes, certainly. If you ask her, she will come all the more willingly.”
“You forget that I am not in the diplomatic service, Mademoiselle.”
“My request annoys you? Well, we will say no more about it,” said
Zibeline. “I will charge Monsieur de Samoreau with the negotiations.”
They rejoined the Duchess, Zibeline accompanying her to the vestibule,
always evincing toward her the same pretty air of deference.
The drive home was silent. The Duke and the Duchess had agreed not to
pronounce the name of Mademoiselle de Vermont before Henri, who racked
his brain without being able to guess what strange motive prompted the
young girl to wish to enter into closer relations with the actress.
A letter from Eugenie was awaiting him. He read:
“Two weeks have elapsed since you have been to see me. I do not ask
whether you love me still, but I do ask you, in case you love
another, to tell me so frankly.
“ARIADNE.”
“So I am summoned to the confessional, and am expected to accuse myself
of that which I dare not avow even to my own heart! Never!” said Henri,
crushing the note in his hand. “Besides, unless I deceive myself,
Ariadne has not been slow in seeking a consoling divinity! Samoreau is
at hand, it appears. He played the part of Plutus before; now he will
assume that of Bacchus,” thought the recreant lover, in order to smother
his feeling of remorse.
CHAPTER XXII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING
The life of General de Prerolles was uniformly regulated. He arose at
dawn, and worked until the arrival of his courier; then he mounted his
horse, attired in morning military costume.
After his ride, he visited the quartermaster-general of his division,
received the report of his chief of staff, and gave necessary orders.
It was at this place, and never at the General’s own dwelling, that
the captains or subaltern officers presented themselves when they had
occasion to speak to him.
At midday he returned to breakfast at the Hotel de Montgeron where,
morning and evening, his plate was laid; and soon after this meal he
retired to his own quarters to work with his orderly, whose duty it
was to report to him regarding the numerous guns and pieces of heavy
ordnance which make the object of much going and coming in military
life.
After signing the usual number of documents, the General would mount
another of his horses, and at this hour would appear in civilian attire
for an afternoon canter. After this second ride he would pass an hour at
his club, but without ever touching a card, no matter what game was in
progress.
He dined at different places, but oftenest with his sister, where by
this time a studied silence was preserved on the subject of Zibeline.
This, however, did not prevent him from thinking of her more and more.
Mademoiselle de Vermont had not been seen again in the Bois de Boulogne
since the night of her dinner, although Henri had sought in vain to meet
her in the mornings in the bridle-path, and afternoons in the Avenue des
Acacias.
He decided that probably she did not wish to ride during Holy Week; but
when several days had passed after Easter, and still she was not seen
amusing herself in her usual fashion, he said to himself that perhaps it
would be the proper thing to make what is called “a dinner-call.”
There are some women whose fascination is so overwhelming as to cause
the sanest of lovers to commit themselves, whence comes the slightly
vulgar expression, “He has lost his bearings.” Henri began to feel that
he was in this state when he presented himself at Zibeline’s home. A
domestic informed him that Mademoiselle had been absent a week, but was
expected home that evening. He left his card, regretting that he had not
waited twenty-four hours more.
It was now the middle of April, the time when the military governor
of Paris is accustomed to pass in review the troops stationed on the
territory under his command, and this review was to take place the next
morning.
The order for the mobilizing of his own division having been received
and transmitted, Henri’s evening was his own, and he resolved to pass it
with Lenaieff, feeling certain that his colleague at least would speak
to him of Zibeline.
The aide-de-camp general lived at the Hotel Continental, much frequented
by Russians of distinction. Henri found his friend just dressing for
dinner, and well disposed to accept his proposition.
As they descended the stairs, they passed an imposing elderly man, with
white moustache and imperial, still very erect in his long redingote
with military buttons--a perfect type of the German officer who gets
himself up to look like the late Emperor William I. This officer and
the French general stopped on the stairs, each eyeing the other without
deciding whether he ought to salute or not, as often happens with people
who think they recognize some one, but without being able to recall
where or in what circumstances they have met before.
It was Henri whose memory was first revived.
“Captain, you are my prisoner!” he said, gayly, seizing the stranger by
the collar.
“What! The Commandant de Prerolles!” cried the elderly man, in
a reproachful tone, from which fifteen years had not removed the
bitterness.
“I know who he is!” said Lenaieff. “Monsieur is your former jailer of
the frontier fortress!”
The officer of the landwehr attempted to withdraw from the hand that
held him.
“Oh, I don’t intend to let you escape! You are coming to dine with
us, and we will sign a treaty of peace over the dessert,” said Henri,
clasping the officer’s hand affectionately.
His tone was so cordial that the stranger allowed himself to be
persuaded. A quarter of an hour later all three were seated at a table
in the Cafe Anglais.
“I present to you General Lenaieff,” said Henri to his guest. “You
should be more incensed against him than against me, for, if he had done
his duty, you would probably have had me imprisoned again.”
“Not imprisoned--shot!” the Captain replied, with conviction.
“In that case I regret my complicity still less,” said Lenaieff, “for
otherwise I should have lost an excellent friend, and, had Prerolles
been shot, he never could have made me acquainted with the delicious
Mademoiselle de Vermont!”
“Ah! So that is what you are thinking of?” Henri said to himself.
“I do not know the young lady of whom you speak,” the German
interrupted; “but I know that, for having allowed the Commandant to
escape, I was condemned to take his place in the prison, and was shut
up there for six months, in solitary confinement, without even seeing my
wife!”
“Poor Captain! How is the lady?” Henry inquired.
“Very well, I thank you.”
“Will you permit us to drink her health?”
“Certainly, Monsieur.”
“Hock! hoch!” said Henri, lifting his glass.
“Hock! hoch!” responded the ex-jailer, drinking with his former
prisoner.
This delicate toast began to appease the bitterness of the good man;
while the memories of his escape, offering a diversion to Henri’s mind,
put him in sympathetic humor with the stranger.
“‘Ah! There are mountains that we never climb but once,’” he said. “We
three, meeting in Paris, can prove the truth of that proverb.”
“Not only in Paris,” said Lenaieff. “If you were in Saint Petersburg,
Henri, you might, any evening, see your old flame, Fanny Dorville.”
“Does she keep a table d’hote?”
“No, indeed, my boy. She plays duenna at the Theatre Michel, as that
fat Heloise used to do at the Palais-Royal. She must have died long ago,
that funny old girl!”
“Not at all. She is still living, and is a pensioner of the Association
of Dramatic Artists! But, pardon me, our conversation can hardly be
amusing to our guest.”
“No one can keep a Frenchman and a Russian from talking about women! The
habit is stronger than themselves!” said the old officer, with a hearty
laugh.
“Well, and you, Captain,” said Lenaieff: “Have you not also trodden the
primrose path in your time?”
“Gentlemen, I never have loved any other woman than my own wife,”
replied the honest German, laying his large hand upon his heart, as if
he were taking an oath. “That astonishes you Parisians, eh?” he added
benevolently.
“Quite the contrary! It assures us peace of mind!” said Lenaieff. “To
your health, Captain!”
“And yours, Messieurs!”
And their glasses clinked a second time.
“Apropos,” said Lenaieff to Henri, “the military governor has asked me
to accompany him to-morrow to the review at Vincennes. I shall then have
the pleasure of seeing you at the head of your division.”
“Teufel!” exclaimed the German officer; “it appears that the Commandant
de Prerolles has lost no time since we took leave of each other.”
“Thanks to you, Monsieur! Had you not allowed me to withdraw from your
society, I should certainly not have reached my present rank! To your
health, Captain!”
“To yours, General!”
Succeeding bumpers finally dissipated entirely the resentment of the
former jailer, and when they parted probably never to meet again--he and
his prisoner had become the best friends in the world.
“Meine besten complimente der Frau Hauptmannin!” said Henri to him, in
leaving him on the boulevard.
“Lieber Gott! I shall take good care not to own to her that I dined with
you.”
“And why, pray?”
“Because there is one thing for which she never will forgive you.”
“What is that?”
“The fact that you were the cause of her living alone for six months!”
CHAPTER XXIII. THE MILITARY REVIEW
The different troops, assembled for review, were massed on the
parade-ground at Vincennes, facing the tribunes.
In the centre, the artillery brigade, surrounded by two divisions of
infantry, was drawn up in two straight columns, connected by regiments;
each division of infantry, in double columns, was connected by brigades.
These six columns were separated by spaces varying from twenty to
twenty-five metres.
In the background, the cavalry division was lined up in columns; behind
that was its artillery, in the same order of formation.
At a given signal, the troops advanced five hundred metres, and, as soon
as they halted, drums, clarinets and trumpets beat and sounded from all
parts of the field, saluting the arrival of the military governor of
Paris.
This functionary, followed by his staff, in the midst of which group
glittered the brilliant Russian uniform of the aide-decamp General
Leniaeff, rode slowly past the front and the flanks of the massed body,
the troops facing to the left or the right as he passed.
This inspection finished, he took up his stand before the pillars at the
entrance, and the march past began by battalions en masse, in the midst
of the acclamations of numerous spectators who had come to witness this
imposing display, well calculated to stir patriotic pride.
The enthusiasm increased; the Prerolles division marched past after its
artillery, and, as always, the martial and distinguished profile of its
general produced its usual effect on the public.
He rode Aida, his favorite mare, an Irish sorrel of powerful frame, with
solid limbs, whose horizontal crupper and long tail indicated her race;
she was one of those animals that are calm and lively at the same time,
capable of going anywhere and of passing through all sorts of trials.
After its parade, the infantry, whose part in the affair was finished,
retraced their steps and took up a position on the other side of the
field of manoeuvres, facing the north, and in front of rising ground, in
preparation for the discharge of musketry.
During this time the artillery brigade, re-formed in battle array on
the parade-ground, detached six batteries, which advanced at a trot
to within one hundred and fifty metres of the tribunes, where they
discharged a volley. The long pieces were run rapidly to right and
left, unmasking the cavalry, which, after a similar volley from its
own batteries, appeared behind them in battle order, and executed a
galloping march, its third line held in reserve.
A few moments later all the troops rejoined the infantry on the ground
set apart for rest and for the purpose of partaking of a cold repast,
consisting of potted meats, with which each man was furnished.
Nothing more picturesque could be imagined than this temporary camp,
with its stacked arms, knapsacks lying on the ground, holes dug in the
ground in which to kindle fires, and the clattering of cans. On the
other side of the field the artillerymen and cavalrymen ate, holding
their reins under their arms, while their officers stood around some
temporary table, served by canteen men of the united divisions. Tiny
columns of blue smoke rose where coffee was making, and everywhere were
the swift movement and sprightly good-fellowship in which the soldier
feels himself in his natural element.
The curious spectators crowded themselves in front of the banner, while
in the centre of the square the military governor of Paris, and the
other officers, talked with some privileged persons who had been able to
present themselves among them.
Descending from his mount a little apart from the group, and plunged in
thought, the former sub-lieutenant of ‘chasseurs a pied’ gazed at the
old fortress, the sight of which recalled so many sad memories.
Vincennes had been his first garrison, and its proximity to Paris had
been disastrous for him. There he had entered one morning, stripped of
his fortune!
And what a series of disasters had followed! But for his heavy losses
upon that fatal night, he would not have been compelled to sell
Prerolles, the income of which, during his long absence, would have
sufficed to lessen the tax on the land, transmissible, had events turned
out otherwise, to some heir to his name. If only fate had not made Paul
Landry cross his path!
“Good morning, General!” came the sound of a fresh, gay voice behind,
which sent a thrill through him.
He turned and saw Zibeline, who had just stopped a few steps distant
from him, sitting in her carriage, to which was harnessed a pretty pair
of cobs, prancing and champing their bits.
“Ah, it is you, Mademoiselle!” he said, carrying his hand to the visor
of his kepi, fastened under his chin.
“I found your card last night,” said Zibeline, “and I have come here
this morning to return your call!”
Then, leaning back in her driving-seat in order to reveal Edmond Delorme
installed beside her, she added:
“I have brought also my painter-in-ordinary. We have watched the review
together, and he is as enthusiastic as I over the picturesque effect
of this improvised bivouac. See! He is so much occupied with his sketch
that I can not get a word out of him.”
It was Aida, whose bridle was held by a dragoon, that served as a model
for the artist’s pencil.
“Will you permit me?” he said to Henri.
“It appears decidedly, that my mare has caught your eye,” replied the
General, approaching the carriage and resting his spurred foot on its
step.
“She has superb lines,” said the painter, without interrupting his
drawing.
“Well, I am curious to know whether she could beat Seaman,” said
Zibeline. “Are you willing to run a race with me, General?”
“As you please--some morning when you return to the Bois.”
“You noticed my absence, then?”
“I assure you that I did,” Henri replied, earnestly.
Then, fearing that he had said too much, he added:
“I, and many others!”
“Good! You were almost making a pretty speech to me, but, as usual, the
disavowal was not slow in coming. Fortunately, here comes your friend
Lenaieff, who is hastening to make amends to me.”
“What good fortune to meet you here, Mademoiselle!” cried Constantin,
who, having perceived Valentine from a distance, had taken an abrupt
leave of his general-in-chief.
“I know that you have called to see me several times,” said she, “but I
was in the country.”
“So early in the month of April?”
“Oh! not to live there. Monsieur de Perolles knows that I have promised
to build our Orphan Asylum at a certain distance from Paris, and hardly
three weeks remain to me before I must hand over the property. If I am
not ready on the day appointed, Monsieur Desvanneaux will be sure to
seize my furniture, and I could not invite you any more to dinner,
Messieurs! A propos, General, Monsieur de Samoreau has failed in his
negotiations. Mademoiselle Gontier refuses to come to recite at my next
soiree!”
“What necessity is there for you to make her acquaintance?” demanded
Henri.
“Ah, that is my secret!”
During this conversation a hired fiacre, well appointed, had stopped
beside the road, and Eugenie Gontier descended from it, inquiring of
an officer belonging to the grounds where she could find General de
Prerolles. When the officer had pointed out the General to her, she
started to walk toward him; but, on seeing her former lover leaning
familiarly against the door of Zibeline’s carriage, she immediately
retraced her steps and quickly reentered her own.
“There is no longer any doubt about it!” said Mademoiselle de Vermont,
who had been observing Eugenie’s movements. “Mademoiselle Gontier has
made a fixed resolution to avoid meeting me.”
“That is because she is jealous of you!” said Lenaieff naively.
“Jealous? And why?” said Zibeline, blushing.
Visibly embarrassed, Henri drew out his watch in order to avert his
countenance.
“Midday!” he cried. “This is the hour for the return of the troops to
their barracks. You would do well not to delay in starting for home,
Mademoiselle. The roads will be very crowded, and your horses will not
be able to trot. I beg your pardon for taking away your model, my dear
Delorme, but I really must be off.”
“It is all the same to me; I have finished my sketch,” said the painter,
closing his portfolio.
At this moment, as the military governor passed near them, on his way to
the crossway of the Pyramid, Henri made a movement as if to rejoin him.
“Do not disturb yourself, General de Prerolles,” said the military
governor. “The compliments which I have made you on the fine appearance
of your troops are probably not so agreeable to you as those to which
you are listening at present!”
And saluting Mademoiselle de Vermont courteously, he went his way.
“Now you are free, Henri. Suppose we accompany Mademoiselle back to
Paris?” suggested Lenaieff, seeming to read his friend’s mind.
“What an honor for me!” Valentine exclaimed.
The General made a sign to his orderly, who approached to receive his
instructions.
“Tell the brigadier-generals that I am about to depart. I need no more
escort than two cavalrymen for General Lenaieff and myself. Now I am
ready, Mademoiselle,” Henri continued, turning toward Valentine. “If you
will be guided by me, we should do well to reach the fortifications by
way of the Lake of Saint-Mande.”
She made a little sound with her tongue, and the two cobs set off in
the direction indicated, the crowds they passed stopping to admire their
high action, and asking one another who was that pretty woman who was
escorted by two generals, the one French, the other a foreigner.
“I must look like a treaty of peace in a Franco-Russian alliance!” said
Zibeline, gayly.
The sun shone brightly, the new leaves were quivering on the trees, the
breeze bore to the ear the echo of the military bands.
Animated by the sound, the two cobs went ahead at a great pace, but they
were kept well in hand by their mistress, who was dressed this morning
in a simple navy-blue costume, with a small, oval, felt hat, ornamented
with two white wings, set on in a manner that made the wearer resemble a
valkyrie. Her whip, an unnecessary accessory, lay across the seat at her
right, on which side of the carriage Henri rode.
The General’s eyes missed none of the graceful movements of the young
girl. And his reflections regarding her, recently interrupted, returned
in full force, augmenting still more his regret at the inexorable fate
that separated him from her. “What a pity!” he thought in his turn,
repeating unconsciously the phrase so often uttered by his sister.
Arrived at the Place du Trene, Valentine stopped her horses a moment,
and addressed her two cavaliers:
“I thank you for your escort, gentlemen. But however high may be your
rank, I really can not go through Paris looking like a prisoner between
two gendarmes! So good-by! I shall see you this evening perhaps, but
good-by for the present.”
They gave her a military salute, and the carriage disappeared in the
Faubourg St. Antoine, while the two horsemen followed the line of the
quays along the Boulevard Diderot.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE CHALLENGE
That person who, in springtime, between ten o’clock and midday, never
has walked beside the bridle-path in the Bois de Boulogne, under
the deep shade of the trees, can form no idea of the large number of
equestrians that for many years have been devoted to riding along that
delightful and picturesque road.
To see and to be seen constitutes the principal raison d’etre of this
exercise, where the riders traverse the same path going and coming, a
man thus being able to meet more than once the fair one whom he seeks,
or a lady to encounter several times a cavalier who interests her.
On this more and more frequented road, the masculine element displayed
different costumes, according to the age and tastes of each rider. The
young men appeared in careless array: leggins, short coats, and small
caps. The older men, faithful to early traditions, wore long trousers,
buttoned-up redingotes, and tall hats, like those worn by their fathers,
as shown in the pictures by Alfred de Dreux.
For the feminine element the dress is uniform. It consists of a
riding-habit of black or dark blue, with bodice and skirt smoothly
molded to the form by one of the two celebrated habit-makers, Youss or
Creed. The personal presence alone varied, according to the degree of
perfection of the model.
A cylindrical hat, a little straight or turned-over collar, a cravat
tied in a sailor’s knot, a gardenia in the buttonhole, long trousers and
varnished boots completed the dress of these modern Amazons, who, having
nothing in common with the female warriors of ancient times, are not
deprived, as were those unfortunates, of any of their feminine charms.
The military element is represented by officers of all grades from
generals to sub-lieutenants, in morning coats, with breeches and high
boots, forbidden under the Second Empire, but the rule at present.
At the top of the Pre-Catelan, the path is crossed by the Bagatelle road
to the lakes, a point of intersection situated near a glade where the
ladies were fond of stopping their carriages to chat with those passing
on horseback. A spectator might have fancied himself at the meet of a
hunting-party, lacking the whippers-in and the dogs.
A few days after the review at Vincennes, on a bright morning in May,
a file of victorias and pony-chaises were strung out along this sylvan
glade, and many persons had alighted from them. Announcing their arrival
by trumpet-blasts, two or three vehicles of the Coaching Club, headed
by that of the Duc de Mont had discharged a number of pretty passengers,
whose presence soon caused the halt of many gay cavaliers.
Several groups were formed, commenting on the news of the day, the
scandal of the day before, the fete announced for the next day.
More serious than the others, the group surrounding Madame de Montgeron
strolled along under the trees in the side paths which, in their
windings, often came alongside of the bridle-path.
“What has become of Mademoiselle de Vermont, Duchess?” inquired Madame
de Lisieux, who had been surprised not to find Zibeline riding with
their party.
“She is in the country, surrounded by masons, occupied in the building
of our Orphan Asylum. The time she required before making over the
property to us expires in two weeks.”
“It is certainly very singular that we do not know where we are to go
for the ceremonies of inauguration,” said Madame Desvanneaux, in her
usual vinegary tones.
“I feel at liberty to tell you that the place is not far away, and the
journey thence will not fatigue you,” said the president, with the air
of one who has long known what she has not wished to reveal heretofore.
“The question of fatigue should not discourage us when it is a matter of
doing good,” said M. Desvanneaux. “Only, in the opinion of the founders
of the Orphan Asylum, it should be situated in the city of Paris
itself.”
“The donor thought that open fields and fresh air would be better for
the children.”
“Land outside of Paris costs very much less, of course; that is probably
the real reason,” said M. Desvanneaux.
“Poor Zibeline! you are well hated!” Madame de Nointel could not help
saying.
“We neither like nor dislike her, Madame. We regard her as indifferently
as we do that,” the churchwarden replied, striking down a branch with
the end of his stick, with the superb air of a Tarquin.
Still gesticulating, he continued:
“The dust that she throws in the eyes of others does not blind us, that
is all!”
The metaphor was not exactly happy, for at that instant the unlucky man
received full in his face a broadside of gravel thrown by the hoofs of a
horse which had been frightened by the flourishing stick, and which had
responded to the menace by a violent kick.
This steed was none other than Seaman, ridden by Mademoiselle de
Vermont. She had recognized the Duchess and turned her horse back in
order to offer her excuses for his misconduct, the effects of which
Madame Desvanneaux tried to efface by brushing off the gravel with the
corner of her handkerchief.
“What has happened?” asked General de Prerolles, who at that moment
cantered up, mounted on Aida.
“Oh, nothing except that Mademoiselle has just missed killing my husband
with that wicked animal of hers!” cried the Maegera, in a fury.
“Mademoiselle might turn the accusation against him,” Madame de Nointel
said, with some malice. “It was he who frightened her horse.”
The fiery animal, with distended veins and quivering nostrils, snorted
violently, cavorted sidewise, and tried to run. Zibeline needed all her
firmness of grasp to force him, without allowing herself to be thrown,
to stand still on the spot whence had come the movement that had alarmed
him.
“Your horse needs exercise,” said Henri to the equestrienne. “You ought
to give him an opportunity to do something besides the formal trot
around this path.”
“I should be able to do so, if ever we could have our match,” said
Zibeline. “Will you try it now?”
“Come on!”
She nodded, gave him her hand an instant, and they set off, side by
side, followed by Zibeline’s groom, no less well mounted than she, and
wearing turned-over boots, bordered with a band of fawn-colored leather,
according to the fashion.
CHAPTER XXV. THE AMAZON HAS A FALL
They were a well-matched pair: he, the perfect type of the elegant and
always youthful soldier; she, the most dashing of all the Amazons in the
Bois, to quote the words of Edmond Delorme.
Everyone was familiar with the personal appearance of both riders, and
recognized them, but until now Mademoiselle de Vermont had always ridden
alone, and now to see her accompanied by the gallant General, whose
embroidered kepi glittered in the sunlight, was a new spectacle for the
gallery.
The people looked at them all the more because Seaman was still
prancing, but without unseating his mistress, who held him at any gait
or any degree of swiftness that pleased her.
“What a good seat you have!” said Henri.
“That is the first real compliment you ever have paid me. I shall
appropriate it immediately, before you have time to retract it,”
Zibeline replied.
At the circle of Melezes, Henri proposed to turn to the right, in order
to reach Longchamp.
“A flat race! You are joking!” Zibeline cried, turning to the left,
toward the road of La Vierge,
“You don’t intend that we shall run a steeplechase, I hope.”
“On the contrary, that is exactly my intention! You are not afraid to
try it, are you?”
“Not on my own account, but on yours.”
“You know very well that I never am daunted by any obstacle.”
“Figuratively, yes; but in riding a horse it is another matter.”
“All the more reason why I should not be daunted now,” Zibeline
insisted.
When they arrived at the public square of the Cascades, in front of the
Auteuil hippodrome, she paused a moment between the two lakes, uncertain
which course to take.
It was Thursday, the day of the races. The vast ground, enclosed on all
sides by a fence, had been cleared, since early morning, of the boards
covering the paths reserved for pedestrians on days when there was no
racing; but it was only eleven o’clock, and the place was not yet open
to the paying public. Several workmen, in white blouses, went along the
track, placing litters beside the obstacles where falls occurred most
frequently.
“Do you think the gatekeeper will allow us to enter at this hour?”
Zibeline asked.
“I hope not!” Henri replied.
“Well, then, I shall enter without his permission! You are free to
declare me the winner. I shall be left to make a walkover, I see!” And
setting off at a gallop along the bridle-path, which was obstructed a
little farther on by the fence itself, she struck her horse resolutely,
and with one audacious bound sprang over the entrance gate. She was now
on the steeplechase track.
“You are mad!” cried the General, who, as much concerned for her safety
as for his own pride, urged on his mare, and, clearing the fence, landed
beside Zibeline on the other side.
“All right!” she cried, in English, dropping her whip, as the starter
drops the flag at the beginning of a race.
The die was cast. Henri bent over Aida’s neck, leaning his hands upon
her withers in an attitude with which experience had made him familiar,
and followed the Amazon, determined to win at all hazards.
Zibeline’s groom, an Englishman, formerly a professional jockey, had
already jumped the fence, in spite of the cries of the guard, who ran
to prevent him, and coolly galloped after his mistress, keeping at his
usual distance.
The first two hedges, which were insignificant obstacles for such
horses, were crossed without effort.
“Not the brook, I beg of you!” cried Henri, seeing that, instead of
running past the grand-stand, Zibeline apparently intended to attempt
this dangerous feat.
“Come on! Seaman would never forgive me if I balk at it!” she cried,
riding fearlessly down the slope.
The good horse gathered up his four feet on the brink, took one vigorous
leap, appearing for a second to hover over the water; then he fell
lightly on the other side of the stream, with a seesaw movement, to
which the intrepid Amazon accommodated herself by leaning far back. The
rebound threw her forward a little, but she straightened herself quickly
and went on.
The General, who had slackened his pace that he might not interfere
with her leap, gave vent to a sigh of relief. He pressed Aida’s flanks
firmly, and the big Irish mare jumped after her competitor, with the
majestic dignity of her race.
Reassured by the ‘savoir-faire’ of his companion, the former winner of
the military steeplechase felt revive within himself all his ardor for
the conflict, and he hastened to make up the distance he had lost.
The two horses, now on the west side of the racetrack, were almost
neck-and-neck, and it would have been difficult to prognosticate which
had the better chance of victory. Zibeline’s light weight gave Seaman
the advantage, but Aida gained a little ground every time she leaped an
obstacle; so that, after passing the hurdles and the third hedge, the
champions arrived simultaneously at the summit of the hill, from which
point the track extends in a straight line, parallel with the Allee des
Fortifications.
Feeling himself urged on still harder, the English horse began to lay
back his ears and pull so violently on the rein that his rider had all
she could do to hold him, and lacked sufficient strength to direct his
course. Seeing Zibeline’s danger, Henri hastened to slacken his horse’s
pace, but it was too late: the almost perpendicular declivity of the
other side of the hill added fresh impetus to the ungovernable rush of
Seaman, who suddenly became wild and reckless.
The situation was all the more critical for the reason that the next
obstacle was a brook, only two metres wide, but of which the passage was
obstructed on the farther side of the track by heavy beams, laid one
on top of another, solidly riveted and measuring one metre and ten
millimetres from the base to the summit. The excited horse charged
obliquely toward this obstruction with all his might. Paying no more
attention to the pressure upon his bit, he rose in the air, but as he
had not given himself sufficient time to take plenty of room for the
leap, his hoofs struck violently against the top beam, the force of
resistance of which threw him over on one side; his hindquarters turned
in the air, and he fell in a heap on the other side of the obstacle,
sending up a great splash of water as he went into the brook.
Had Zibeline been crushed by the weight of the horse in this terrible
fall, or, not having been able to free herself from him, had she been
drowned under him? Henri uttered a hoarse cry, struck his spurs into the
sides of his mare, crossed the brook breathlessly, stopping on the other
side as soon as he could control his horse’s pace; then, rushing back,
he leaped to the ground to save the poor girl, if there was still time
to do so.
Zibeline lay inanimate on the grass, her face lying against the earth.
By a lucky chance, the horse had fallen on his right side, so that his
rider’s limbs and skirt had not been caught. Unhorsed by the violence
of the shock, Zibeline had gone over the animal’s head and fallen on the
other side of the brook. Her Amazon hat, so glossy when she had set out,
was now crushed, and her gloves were torn and soiled with mud; which
indicated that she had fallen on her head and her hands.
Henri knelt beside her, passed his arm around her inert and charming
body, and drew her tenderly toward him. Her eyes were half-open and
dull, her lips pale; her nose, the nostrils of which were usually well
dilated, had a pinched look; and a deadly pallor covered that face which
only a moment before had been so rosy and smiling.
These signs were the forerunners of death, which the officer had
recognized so many times on the battlefield. But those stricken ones had
at least been men, devoting themselves to the risks of warfare; while
in the presence of this young girl lying before him, looking upon this
victim of a reckless audacity to which he felt he had lent himself too
readily, the whole responsibility for the accident seemed to him to rest
upon his own shoulders, and a poignant remorse tore his heart.
He removed her cravat, unhooked her bodice, laid his ear against her
breast, from which an oppressed breathing still arose.
Two laborers hurried to open the gate and soon arrived at the spot
with a litter, guided by the groom, whose horse had refused to jump
the brook, and who since then had followed the race on foot outside the
track. While the General placed Zibeline on the litter, the groom took
Aida by the bridle, and the sad procession made its way slowly toward
the enclosure surrounding the weighing-stand.
As for Seaman, half submerged in the stream, and with an incurable
fracture of the leg, nothing was left to do for the poor animal but to
kill him.
CHAPTER XXVI. AN UNCONSCIOUS AVOWAL
Walking slowly, step by step, beside her whose power had so quickly
and so wholly subjugated him, watching over her removal with more than
paternal solicitude, Henri de Prerolles, sustained by a ray of hope,
drew a memorandum-book from his pocket, wrote upon a slip of paper a
name and an address, and, giving it to the groom, ordered him to go
ahead of the litter and telephone to the most celebrated surgeon in
Paris, requesting him to go as quickly as possible to the domicile
of Mademoiselle de Vermont, and, meantime, to send with the greatest
despatch one of the eight-spring carriages from the stables.
It was noon by the dial on the grand-stand when the litter was finally
deposited in a safe place. The surgeon could hardly arrive in less than
two hours; therefore, the General realized that he must rely upon his
own experience in rendering the first necessary aid.
He lifted Valentine’s hand, unbuttoned the glove, laid his finger on her
pulse, and counted the pulsations, which were weak, slow, and irregular.
While the wife of the gate-keeper kept a bottle of salts at the nostrils
of the injured girl, Henri soaked a handkerchief in tincture of arnica
and sponged her temples with it; then, pouring some drops of the liquid
into a glass of water, he tried in vain to make her swallow a mouthful.
Her teeth, clenched by the contraction of muscles, refused to allow it
to pass into her throat. At the end of half an hour, the inhalation
of the salts began to produce a little effect; the breath came more
regularly, but that was the only symptom which announced that the swoon
might soon terminate. The landau with the high springs arrived. The
General ordered the top laid back, and helped to lift and place upon the
cushions on the back seat the thin mattress on which Zibeline lay; then
he took his place on the front seat, made the men draw the carriage-top
back into its proper position, and the equipage rolled smoothly,
and without a jar, to its destination. On the way they met the first
carriages that had arrived at the Auteuil hippodrome, the occupants of
which little suspected what an exciting dramatic incident had occurred
just before the races. Zibeline’s servants, by whom she was adored,
awaited their mistress at the threshold, and for her maids it was an
affair of some minutes to undress her and lay her in her own bed. During
this delay, the surgeon, who had hastened to answer the call, found
Henri nervously walking about from one drawing-room to the other; and,
having received information as to the details of the fall, he soon
entered the bedchamber. While awaiting the sentence of life or of death
which must soon be pronounced, he who considered himself the chief cause
of this tragic event continued to pace to and fro in the gallery--that
gallery where, under the intoxication of a waltz, the demon of
temptation had so quickly demolished all his resolutions of resistance.
A half-hour--an age!--elapsed before the skilled practitioner
reappeared. “There is no fracture,” he said, “but the cerebral shock
has been such that I can not as yet answer for the consequences. If the
powerful reactive medicine which I have just given should bring her back
to her senses soon, her mental faculties will suffer no harm. If not,
there is everything to fear. I will return in three hours,” he added.
Without giving a thought to the conventionalities, Henri entered the
bedchamber, to the great astonishment of the maids, and, installing
himself at the head of the bed, he decided not to leave that spot until
Valentine had regained her senses, should she ever regain them. An
hour passed thus, while Henri kept the same attitude, erect, attentive,
motionless, with stray scraps of his childhood’s prayers running through
his brain. Suddenly the heavy eyelids of the wounded girl were lifted;
the dulness of the eyes disappeared; her body made an involuntary
attempt to change its position; the nostrils dilated; the lips quivered
in an effort to speak. Youth and life had triumphed over death. With
painful slowness, she tried to raise her hand to her head, the seat of
her pain, where, though half paralyzed, thought was beginning to return.
Her eyes wandered to and fro in the shadowy room, seeking to recognize
the surroundings. A ray of light, filtering through the window-curtains,
showed her the anxious face bending tenderly over her. “Henri!” she
murmured, in a soft, plaintive voice. That name, pronounced thus, the
first word uttered after her long swoon, revealed her secret. Never had
a more complete yet modest avowal been more simply expressed; was it not
natural that he should be present at her reentrance into life, since
she loved him? With women, the sentiment of love responds to the most
diverse objects. The ordinary young girl of Zibeline’s age, either
before or after her sojourn in a convent, considers that a man of thirty
has arrived at middle age, and that a man of forty is absolutely old.
Should she accept a man of either of these ages, she does it because a
fortune, a title, or high social rank silences her other tastes, and
her ambition does the rest. But, with an exceptional woman, like
Mademoiselle de Vermont, brought up in view of wide horizons, in the
midst of plains cleared by bold pioneers, among whom the most valorous
governed the others, a man like General de Prerolles realized her ideal
all the more, because both their natures presented the same striking
characteristics: carelessness of danger, and frankness carried to
its extremest limit. Therefore, this declaration--to use the common
expression--entirely free from artifice or affectation, charmed Henri
for one reason, yet, on the other hand, redoubled his perplexity. How
could he conciliate his scruples of conscience with the aspirations
of his heart? The problem seemed then as insoluble as when it had been
presented the first time. But Valentine was saved. For the moment that
was the essential point, the only one in question. The involuntary
revelation of her secret had brought the color to her cheeks, the light
to her eyes, a smile to her lips, in spite of the leaden band that
seemed still pressing upon her head. “How you have frightened me!” said
Henri, in a low voice, seating himself on the side of the bed and
taking her hand. “Is that true?” she asked, softly pressing his fingers.
“Hush!” he said, making a movement to enjoin silence. She obeyed, and
they remained a few moments thus. Nevertheless, he reflected that
the account of the accident would soon be spread everywhere, that
Valentine’s new friends would hear about it as soon as they arrived at
the race-track that day, and that he could no longer prolong his stay
beside her.
“Are you leaving me so soon?” Valentine murmured, when he said that he
must go.
“I am going to tell my sister and the Chevalier de Sainte-Foy of your
mishap.”
“Very well,” she replied, as if already she had no other desire than to
follow his wishes.
He gave the necessary orders, and again took his place beside the bed,
awaiting the second visit of the doctor, whose arrival was simultaneous
with that of the Duchess.
This time the verdict was altogether favorable, with no mention of
the possibility of any aggravating circumstances. An inevitable
feverishness, and a great lassitude, which must be met with absolute
repose for several days, would be the only consequences of this
dangerous prank.
The proprieties resumed their normal sway, and it was no longer possible
for Henri to remain beside the charming invalid.
CHAPTER XXVII. DISTRACTION
The Duchesse de Montgeron, who had passed the rest of the day with
Mademoiselle de Vermont, did not return to her own dwelling until eight
o’clock that evening, bearing the most reassuring news.
Longing for fresh air and exercise, Henri went out after dinner, walked
through the Champs-Elysees, and traversed the crossing at l’Etoile, in
order to approach the spot where Zibeline lay ill.
If one can imagine the feelings of a man of forty-five, who is loved for
himself, under the most flattering and unexpected conditions, one can
comprehend the object of this nocturnal walk and the long pause that
Henri made beneath the windows of Zibeline’s apartment. A small garden,
protected by a light fence, was the only obstacle that separated them.
But how much more insuperable was the barrier which his own principles
had raised between this adorable girl and himself.
Had he not told his sister, confided to Eugenie Gontier, and reiterated
to any one that would listen to him, the scruples which forbade him ever
to think of marriage? To change this decision, in asking for the hand of
Mademoiselle de Vermont, would-in appearance, at least--sacrifice to the
allurement of wealth the proud poverty which he had long borne so nobly.
But the demon of temptation was then, as always, lurking in the shadow,
the sole witness of this duel to the death between prejudice and love.
When he returned to his rooms he found another note from his former
mistress:
“You have just had a terrible experience, my dear friend. Nothing
that affects you can be indifferent to me. I beg you to believe,
notwithstanding the grief which our separation causes me, in all the
prayers that I offer for your happiness.
“ARIADNE.”
“My happiness? My torture, rather!” he said, the classic name of Ariadne
suggesting the idea that the pseudonym of Tantalus might well be applied
to himself.
But he had long kept a rule to write as little as possible, and
was guarded in making reply to any letter, especially to such a
communication as this.
When he left the house the next morning, on his way to attend to
military duties, he learned that his sister had gone away early on an
excursion to one of the suburbs, and that she would not return until
evening. As the Duchess was the only person who had been initiated into
the mystery surrounding Zibeline on the subject of the building of the
Orphan Asylum, it was evident that she had gone to take her place in the
directing of the work.
In the afternoon Henri called to inquire for the invalid, and was
received by the Chevalier de Sainte-Foy. She had had a quiet night; a
little fever had appeared toward morning, and, above all, an extreme
weakness, requiring absolute quiet and freedom from any excitement. On
an open register in the reception-room were inscribed the names of all
those persons who had called to express their interest in Mademoiselle
de Vermont: Constantin Lenaieff, the Lisieux, the Nointels, Edmond
Delorme, the Baron de Samoreau, and others. Only the Desvanneaux had
shown no sign of life. Their Christian charity did not extend so far as
that.
Henri added his name to the list, and for several days he returned each
morning to inscribe it anew, feeling certain that, as soon as Valentine
was able to be placed half-reclining on a couch, she would give orders
that he should be admitted to her presence. But nothing of the kind
occurred.
On the evening of the fifth day after the accident, the Duchess informed
her brother that their young friend had been taken to the country, where
it was thought a complete cure would sooner be effected.
This hasty departure, made without any preliminary message, caused Henri
to feel the liveliest disappointment.
Had he deceived himself, then? Was it, after all, only by chance
that she had so tenderly pronounced his name, and had that familiar
appellative only been drawn from her involuntarily because of her
surprise at beholding his unexpected presence at her bedside?
Regarding the matter from this point of view, the whole romance that he
had constructed on a fragile foundation had really never existed save in
his own imagination!
At this thought his self-esteem suffered cruelly. He felt a natural
impulse to spring into a carriage and drive to the dwelling of
Eugenie Gontier, and there to seek forgetfulness. But he felt that his
bitterness would make itself known even there, and that such a course
would be another affront to the dignity of a woman of heart, whose
loyalty to himself he never had questioned.
Try to disguise it as he would, his sombre mood made itself apparent,
especially to his brother-in-law, who had no difficulty in guessing the
cause, without allowing Henri to suspect that he divined it.
The date for the formal transfer of the Orphan Asylum to the committee
had been fixed for the fifteenth day of May.
On the evening of the fourteenth, at the hour when the General was
signing the usual military documents in his bureau, a domestic presented
to him a letter which, he said, had just been brought in great haste by
a messenger on horseback:
The superscription, “To Monsieur the General the Marquis de Prerolles,”
was inscribed in a long, English hand, elegant and regular. The orderly
gave the letter to his chief, who dismissed him with a gesture before
breaking the seal. The seal represented, without escutcheon or crown, a
small, wild animal, with a pointed muzzle, projecting teeth, and shaggy
body, under which was a word Henri expected to find: Zibeline!
The letter ran thus:
“MY DEAR GENERAL:
“An officer, like yourself, whose business it is to see that his
orders are obeyed, will understand that I have not dared, even in
your favor, to infringe on those imposed upon me by the doctor.
But those orders have been withdrawn! If you have nothing better to
do, come to-morrow, with your sister, to inspect our asylum, before
Monsieur Desvanneaux takes possession of it!
“Your military eye will be able to judge immediately whether
anything is lacking in the quarters. Yours affectionately,
“VALENTINE DE VERMONT.
“P.S.--Poor Seaman is dead! I beg you to carry this sad news to his
friend Aida. V.”
If a woman’s real self is revealed in her epistolary style, finesse,
good-humor, and sprightliness were characterised in this note.
Zibeline’s finesse had divined Henri’s self-deception; her good-humor
sought to dissipate it; and her sprightliness was evidenced by her
allusions to M. Desvanneaux and the loss of her horse.
When they found themselves reunited at the dinner-hour, the Duchess said
simply to her brother:
“You must have received an invitation to-day from Mademoiselle de
Vermont. Will you accompany us tomorrow?”
“Yes, certainly. But where? How? At what hour?”
“We must leave here at one o’clock. Don’t disturb yourself about any
other detail--we shall look after everything.”
“Good! I accept.”
As he was not so curious as the Desvanneaux, it mattered little to him
to what place they took him, so long as he should find Zibeline at the
end of the journey.
At the appointed hour the brother and sister drove to the Gare du Nord.
The Duke, a director of the road, who had been obliged to attend a
convocation of the Council until noon, had preceded them. He was waiting
for them beside the turnstile at the station, having already procured
their tickets and reserved a carriage in one of the omnibus trains from
Paris to Treport which make stops at various suburban stations.
“Will it be a very long journey?” Henri asked, on taking his place in
the carriage.
“Barely three-quarters of an hour,” said the Duke, as the train started
on its way.
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE VOW REDEEMED
The third road, constructed between the two lines which met at Creil,
passing, the one by way of Chantilly, the other, by Pontoise, was not
in existence in 1871, when, after the war, Jeanne and Henri de Prerolles
went to visit the spot, already unrecognizable, where they had passed
their childhood. L’Ile-d’Adam was at that time the nearest station; to
day it is Presles, on the intermediate line, which they now took.
“This is our station,” said Madame de Montgeron, when the train stopped
at Montsoult. They descended from the carriage, and found on the
platform two footmen, who conducted them to a large char-a-banc, to
which were harnessed four dark bay Percherons, whose bridles were held
by postilions in Zibeline’s livery, as correct in their appearance as
those belonging to the imperial stables, when the sojourn of the court
was at Compiegne or at Fontainebleau.
“Where are we going now, Jeanne?” asked Henri, whose heart seemed to him
to contract at the sight of Maffliers, which he knew so well.
“A short distance from here,” his sister replied.
The horses set off, and, amid the sound of bells and the cracking of
whips, the carriage reached the national road from Paris to Beauvais,
which, from Montsoult, passes around the railway by a rapid descent,
from the summit of which is visible, on the right, the Chateau of
Franconville; on the left, the village of Nerville perched on its crest.
One of the footmen on the rear seat held the reins, and a quarter of
an hour later the carriage stopped just before arriving at the foot of
Valpendant.
Valpendant had formerly been a feudal manor within the confines of
Ile-de-France, built midway upon a hill, as its name indicated. On the
side toward the plain was a moat, and the castle itself commanded the
view of a valley, through which ran the little stream called Le Roi,
which flows into the river Oise near the hamlet of Mours. Acquired
in the fifteenth century by the lords of Prerolles, it had become an
agricultural territory worked for their profit, first by forced labor,
and later by farmers.
Even recently, the courtyard, filled with squawking fowls and domestic
animals of all kinds, and the sheds crowded with agricultural implements
piled up in disorder, presented a scene of confusion frequent among
cultivators, and significant of the alienation of old domains from their
former owners.
“We have arrived!” said the Duchess, alighting first.
“What, is it here?” Henri exclaimed, his heart beating more quickly.
“Your old farm was for sale just at the time that Mademoiselle de
Vermont was seeking an appropriate site for the Orphan Asylum. This spot
appeared to her to combine all the desirable conditions, and she has
wrought the transformation you are about to behold. It might as well be
this place as another,” the Duchess added. “In my opinion, it is a sort
of consolation offered to us by fate.”
“Be it so!” said Henri, in a tone of less conviction.
He followed his sister along the footpath of a bluff, which as children
they had often climbed; while the carriage made a long detour in order
to reach the main entrance to the grounds.
The footpath, winding along near the railway embankment, ended at
a bridge, where Zibeline awaited the three visitors. A significant
pressure of her hand showed Henri how little cause he had had for his
apprehensions.
They entered. Seen from the main entrance, the metamorphosis of the
place was complete.
The old tower that had served as a barn alone remained the same; it was
somewhat isolated from the other building, and had been repaired in
the style of its period, making a comfortable dwelling for the future
director of the Asylum. Mademoiselle de Vermont occupied it temporarily.
On each side of the grounds, standing parallel, rose two fine buildings:
on the ground floor of each were all the customary rooms and accessories
found on model farms; on the upper floors were dormitories arranged
to receive a large number of children of both sexes. There were
schoolrooms, sewing-rooms, a chapel-in short, nothing was lacking to
assist in the children’s intellectual and manual education.
“You have done things royally,” said the Duke to the happy donor, when,
having finished the inspection of the premises, they returned to the
directors’ room, indicated by a plate upon its door.
As for Henri, silent and absorbed, he hesitated between the dread of
facing a new emotion and the desire to go once more to gaze upon the
tower of Prerolles, hardly more than two kilometres distant.
“What is the matter with you, General?” Zibeline asked, observing that
he did not appear to take pleasure in the surprise she had prepared.
“I lived here many years a long time ago,” he replied. “I am thinking
of all that it recalls to me; and, if you would not consider it
discourteous on my part, I should like to leave you for a little time to
make a pilgrimage on foot around the neighborhood.”
“Would you like to have me take you myself? I have a little English cart
which can run about anywhere,” said Zibeline.
The proposition was tempting. The sweetness of a tete-a-tete might
diminish the bitterness of recollections. He accepted.
She ordered the cart brought around, and they climbed into the small
vehicle, which was drawn by a strong pony, driven by Zibeline herself.
“Which way?” she asked, when they had passed through the gates.
“To the right,” he said, pointing to a rough, half-paved slope, an
abandoned part of what had been in former days the highway, which now
joins the new road at the Beaumont tunnel.
Passing this point, and leaving on their left the state road
of l’Ile-d’Adam, they drove through a narrow cross-cut, between
embankments, by which one mounts directly to the high, plateau that
overlooks the town of Presles.
The hill was steep, and the pony was out of breath. They were compelled
to stop to allow him to rest.
“It is not necessary to go any farther,” said Henri to his companion. “I
need only to take a few steps in order to see what interests me.”
“I will wait for you here,” she replied, alighting after him. “Don’t
be afraid to leave me alone. The horse will not move; he is used to
stopping.”
He left her gathering daisies, and walked resolutely to the panoramic
point of view, where a strange and unexpected sight met his eyes!
All that had once been so dear to him had regained its former aspect.
The kitchen-gardens had given place to the rich pastures, where yearling
colts frisked gayly. The factory had disappeared, and the chateau had
been restored to its original appearance. The walls enclosing the park
had been rebuilt, and even several cleared places indicated the sites of
cottages that had been pulled down.
Henri de Prerolles could hardly believe his eyes! Was he the sport of a
dream or of one of those mirages which rise before men who travel across
the sandy African deserts? The latitude and the position of the sun
forbade this interpretation. But whence came it, then? What fairy had
turned a magic ring in order to work this miracle?
A crackling of dry twigs under a light tread made him turn, and he
beheld Zibeline, who had come up behind him.
The fairy was there, pale and trembling, like a criminal awaiting
arrest.
“Is it you who have done this?” Henri exclaimed, with a sob which no
human strength could have controlled.
“It is I!” she murmured, lowering her eyes. “I did it in the hope that
some day you would take back that which rightfully belongs to you.”
“Rightfully, you say? By what act?”
“An act of restitution.”
“You never have done me any injury, and nothing authorizes me to accept
such a gift from Mademoiselle de Vermont.”
“Vermont was the family name of my mother. When my father married
her, he obtained leave to add it to his own. I am the daughter of Paul
Landry.”
“You!”
“Yes. The daughter of Paul Landry, whose fortune had no other origin
than the large sum of which he despoiled you.”
Henri made a gesture of denial.
“Pardon me!” Zibeline continued. “He was doubly your debtor, since this
sum had been increased tenfold when you rescued him from the Mexicans
who were about to shoot him. ‘This is my revenge!’ you said to him,
without waiting to hear a word from him. Your ruin was the remorse
of his whole life. I knew it only when he lay upon his deathbed.
Otherwise--”
She paused, then raised her head higher to finish her words.
“Never mind!” she went on. “That which he dared not do while living, I
set myself to do after his death. When I came to Paris to inquire what
had become of the Marquis de Prerolles, your glorious career answered
for you; but even before I knew you I had become the possessor of these
divided estates, which, reunited by me, must be restored to your hands.
You are proud, Henri,” she added, with animation, “but I am none less
proud than you. Judge, then, what I have suffered in realizing our
situation: I, overwhelmed with riches, you, reduced to your officer’s
pay. Is that a satisfaction to your pride? Very well! But to my own, it
is the original stain, which only a restitution, nobly accepted by you,
ever can efface!”
She paused, looking at him supplicatingly, her hands clasped. As he
remained silent, she understood that he still hesitated, and continued:
“To plead my cause, to vanquish your resistance, as I am trying now to
triumph over it, could be attempted with any chance of success only by
a dear and tender friend; that is the reason why I sought to establish
relations with--”
“With Eugenie Gontier?”
“But she would not consent to it--all the worse for her! For, since
then, you and I have come to know each other well. Your prejudices have
been overcome one by one. I have observed it well. I am a woman, and
even your harshness has not changed my feelings, nor prevented me from
believing that, in spite of yourself, you were beginning to love me.
Have I been deceiving myself?--tell me!”
“You know that you have not, since, as I look at you and listen to you,
I know not which I admire more-your beauty or the treasures of your
heart!”
“Then come!”
“Whither?”
“To Prerolles, where all is ready to receive you.”
“Well, since this is a tale from the Arabian Nights, let us follow it to
the end! I will go!” said Henri.
Browsing beside the road, the pony, left to himself, had advanced toward
them, step by step, whinnying to his mistress. Valentine and Henri
remounted the cart; which soon drew up before the gates of the chateau,
where, awaiting them, reinstated in his former office, stood the old
steward, bent and white with years.
The borders of the broad driveway were of a rich, deep green.
Rose-bushes in full bloom adorned the smooth lawns. The birds trilled a
welcome in jumping from branch to branch, and across the facade of the
chateau the open windows announced to the surrounding peasantry the
return of the prodigal master.
At the top of the flight of steps Valentine stepped back to allow Henri
to pass before her; then, changing her mind, she advanced again.
“No, you are at home,” she said. “It is I that must enter first!”
He followed her docilely, caring no longer to yield to any other will
than hers.
Within the chateau, thanks to the complicity of the Duchess, the
furnishings resembled as closely as possible those of former days. The
good fairy had completed successfully two great works: the restoration
of the chateau and the building of the asylum. The inhabitants of the
one would be so much the better able to foresee the needs of the other.
Having explored one of the wings, they returned to the central hall.
Mademoiselle de Vermont made a sign to the steward to remain there, and
beckoned to Henri to accompany her to the historic gallery. After they
had entered it, she closed the door. The family portraits had been
rehung in their former places, in chronological order, and, in its
proper place, figured that of the General of Division the Marquis de
Prerolles, in full uniform, mounted on Aida, the portrait being the work
of Edmond Delorme.
At this sight, touched to the depths of his heart, Henri knelt before
Valentine, and carried her hand to his lips.
“I adore you!” he said, without attempting to hide the tears of
gratitude that fell upon those generous hands.
“Do you, indeed?” Zibeline murmured.
“You shall see!” he replied, rising. “Come, in your turn.”
He led her before the portrait of the ancestral marshal of France, and
said:
“Twenty-three years ago I vowed before that portrait either to vanquish
the enemy or to regain with honor all that I had lost at play. I have
kept my word. Will you be my wife?”
“Ah, you know my heart is yours!” Zibeline whispered, hiding her face
upon his shoulder.
The door at the end of the gallery opened; the Duc and the Duchesse de
Montgeron appeared. Henri took Zibeline’s hand and approached them.
“The Marquise de Prerolles!” he said, presenting her to his sister and
her husband.
CHAPTER XXIX. THE MARQUISE DE PREROLLES
The next day a special train landed the fair patronesses at the station
of Presles, whence Zibeline’s carriages conducted them to Valpendant.
The deed of gift was signed before M. Durand and his colleague, a notary
of Pontoise.
This formality fulfilled, M. Desvanneaux, whose own role, for a moment
overshadowed, appeared to him to renew its importance, took the floor
and said:
“It remains to us, Mesdames, to assure the support of the Orphan Asylum
by means of an annual income.”
“The Marquis and the Marquise de Prerolles assume this responsibility,”
said the ministerial officer, treasurer of the Asylum. “This mutual
engagement will form the object of a special clause in the drawing up of
their contract.”
In this way was the news of the approaching marriage between Valentine
and Henri announced to the Society.
“The little intriguer!” murmured the churchwarden, nudging the elbow of
his Maegera.
The General, who noted the effect which this announcement had produced
upon the peevish pair, divined the malicious words upon the hypocritical
lips. He drew the husband aside, and put one hand upon his shoulder.
“Desvanneaux,” he said, “you have known me twenty-five years, and you
know that I am a man of my word. If ever a malevolent word from you
regarding my wife should come to my ears, I shall elongate yours to such
a degree that those of King Midas will be entirely eclipsed! Remember
that!”
The ceremony took place six weeks later, in the church of St.
Honore-d’Eylau, which was not large enough to hold the numerous public
and the brilliant corps of officers that assisted.
The witnesses for the bridegroom were the military governor of Paris and
the Duc de Montgeron. Those of the bride were the aide-de-camp General
Lenaieff, in full uniform, wearing an astrachan cap and a white cloak
with the Russian eagle fastened in the fur; and the Chevalier de
Sainte-Foy.
On the evening before, a last letter from his former mistress had come
to the General:
“I have heard all the details of your romance, my dear Henri. Its
conclusion is according to all dramatic rules, and I congratulate
you without reserve.
“If, on the eve of contracting this happy union, an examination of
your conscience should suggest to you some remorse for having
abandoned me so abruptly, let me say that no shadow, not even the
lightest, must cloud the serenity of this joyous day: I am about to
leave the stage forever, to become the wife of the Baron de
Samoreau!
“Always affectionately yours,
“EUGENIE GONTIER.”
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